She set up her folding stool and began to sketch. Something inside her still was not quite right. And she knew it.
Arianna thought of all the encouragement she had received since she had arrived. John had enthused she should consider “the alchemy of everything that surrounds us . . . mix the brightness of the sun, the blue of the sky and the breezes that waft by with your paint and paper, and magic will happen.” And so she decided to do just that. It’s a beginning . . . please . . . just let me start . . .
As she took in her surroundings, she was reminded how working en plein air was all about movement . . . the sky, clouds, light, wind. John was so right.
She decided to begin to capture the scene she wanted to paint by dividing her paper into four quadrants. By drawing a thumbnail sketch of the scene slightly differently in each box, she could decide how her painting would begin.
Two hours later, a soft bell summoned them for coffee. Arianna welcomed the reprieve from the clash of emotions that remained with her. But she felt a hint of pride that she had finally achieved a beginning on her canvas and a detailed color wheel.
“Just leave your equipment where it is and join us in the main salon, please. We will turn you loose out there again later this afternoon.” Juliette’s cheerful voice drifted out to the terrace.
As Arianna made her way back, she paused at the edge of the terrace. With her eyes closed, she turned her face up to the sun. The warmth washed down over her chest and bare arms. She opened her eyes and let the blue of the sky lift her spirits. She so wanted to feel happy. How could she not in this peaceful and stunning setting?
A light poke on her arm startled her, and she let out a squeal.
“Oh, bloody hell! Sorry to scare you! I wasn’t sneaking up on you. Didn’t know whether to say something or simply touch your arm. You seemed quite caught up in your thoughts. I rather thought I should ensure you are well.”
Arianna shook her head, slightly flustered, and assured Bertram Lloyd-Goldsmith he had not frightened her. “You just surprised me. I was taking a moment to feel that lovely warm sun.”
“Well, I certainly hope you remembered to put on sunblock,” he fussed, glassy-eyed, his beet-red face dripping with perspiration. Arianna could hear him hiccuping as he disappeared into the kitchen.
With her arm linked through Jacques de Villeneuve’s, Juliette escorted the guest in through a door from the front terrace. Jacques promptly removed the slightly battered, soft-brimmed black hat he was wearing. It reminded Arianna of the fedora her father wore to the Greek Orthodox church in winter back in the sixties, when the men all left their hats on a shelf inside the entrance.
Juliette introduced him once everyone was sitting with coffee or tea—or rosé, if you were Bertram. Arianna wondered where he had found it at that hour.
“Please welcome our guest, Jacques de Villeneuve. He is a friend, an artist, and one of the few remaining gardians of the Camargue.”
He was a mesmerizing figure. Tall and lean with rugged good looks, he projected an aura of quiet confidence about him even in his simple garb. Still holding his hat, he wore the standard attire of a gardian: gray moleskin cotton pants and a long-sleeve cotton shirt in a blue Provençal pattern.
“A très sexy dude,” Joan whispered to Arianna with a wink and a nudge as they sat together. Arianna nudged her back and did not disagree.
In no time, de Villeneuve had drawn his listeners into the mysterious landscape of the Camargue, a vast, windy area composed of endless beaches, shifting wetlands, enormous salt deposits, a UNESCO nature reserve, and agricultural land.
“As an artist, my work is influenced by living here, and I hope I can impart some helpful reflections. I’ll be interested to hear how your art has been impacted by the surroundings in your part of the world.”
The group was soon captivated by his words and the slide show of photos he had brought along. It was clear they were learning about a part of France unfamiliar to them all.
“Of course, the world knows the Provence of the masters . . . and why not?” His startling blue eyes connected with them all, seeming to emphasize the power of that thought. “Arles, in particular, played a most important part in the life of Vincent van Gogh—a frenzied, frantic sixteen months when he completed over three hundred pieces of work. His memory is all around us in this town.
“Today I simply offer you other aspects of art to consider in an area where beauty is perceived in a much different way. Scrubby farmland, remnants of an ancient forest, marshy fields with towering reeds, intriguing lagoons, and vast saline flats. To some, there is little beauty in the Camargue. To me, it’s endless.” Bertram appeared ready to interrupt, and Barbara, sitting next to him, gently patted his arm and shook her head imperceptibly.
The gardian’s voice was low, inviting attention. He drew pictures with his words as he blended history with the extraordinary environment and unusual cultures that had evolved there. The group sat spellbound.
He led them through a brief history of the Rhône delta, highlighted from time to time with his stunning photography and artwork. His choice of graphite pencil for most of his art created a dramatic effect.
With a laser pointer, he outlined areas on a large map set on an easel to help illustrate his narrative. As he spoke, he switched roles before their eyes: environmentalist, artist, cowboy.
Arianna felt as though he had put everyone in the room into the basket of a hot air balloon and floated them from one part of the Camargue to the next. The timbre of his voice and his confident self-assurance kept them mesmerized.
“After World War II, the northern marshes were drained and irrigated with fresh water. By the 1960s, Camargue rice was supplying three-quarters of the demand in France. How times are changing. I believe now it only supplies about one-quarter. The good news is that our riz rouge has recently been discovered by gourmands.”
Marti put up her hand excitedly. “Camargue red rice! Love it! We use it at our restaurant in Napa.”
De Villeneuve laughed, clearly pleased. “And do you cook it in California like we do? That’s the question!”
“Oui, oui! Like pasta! Until it is al dente, in a huge pot of salted boiling water, with sel de Camargue, bien sûr! I’m a fanatic about rice.”
They grinned at each other. Juliette said she would make certain she served some while they were at the mas.
“How about Camargue wines?” Bertram asked. “I’ve been told I must try them.”
Jacques spoke directly to Bertram. “The vines here are unique in France. You may remember hearing about the phylloxera pandemic in the nineteenth century. It was catastrophic! Destroyed all the other vineyards in France!”
Bertram nodded. “These were the only ones spared. Rootstocks had to be reimported into France for all other vineyards. Am I correct?”
“That’s correct, sir. The roots and stems here were submerged underwater. Aphids couldn’t attack the roots because of the unusual texture of the sandy soil. That was our good luck.”
He showed a map indicating the location of the vineyards in the Camargue. Then his voice grew more serious as he explained the threat the vignobles faced during World War II.
“During the occupation, tens of thousands of land mines were buried in the vineyards to deter the Allies from landing along the sand banks. They were—”
“Good God,” Bertram interrupted, “the condition of this area must have been deplorable!”
“Indeed it was,” Jacques agreed. “But with determined effort, the mines were cleared, and authentic, uncompromising wines are now produced. It’s a unique terroir and—”
“Ah, terroir . . . Such a vital part of the French psyche . . .” Bertram interrupted again.
“You are so right!” Jacques replied, unbothered by the Englishman’s rude manner. “Terroir is very important to the French; you might hear the word most often used in relation to wines. But really, it encompasses our obsession with food and where it comes from. It’s simply a combinatio
n of local factors, like soil, climate, and altitude, that makes what we eat and drink unique.”
He stopped to take a drink of water and then continued. “Like the chickens from Bourg-en-Bresse or butter from Normandy, melons from Cavaillon or saucissons from Arles. To simplify, it’s something about a product that enhances community, cooking, and taste. Get the picture?”
They nodded.
It was no surprise that, once again, Bertram jumped into the conversation. From time to time, the slurring of his words was obvious. Though his thoughts were always clear and concise.
“I have long been a student of van Gogh. That’s how I first learned anything about the Camargue. I read about his stagecoach voyage, in 1888, to Sainte-Maries-de-la-Mer, hoping the sea air would ease his ailments. The first work I saw of his from there was done with a reed pen. Your sketches remind me of that.”
Bertram paused and asked if anyone else in the group was aware of van Gogh’s works from that area. The boastful Englishman’s inclusiveness of the others was a surprise.
Jacques smiled. Interest was percolating.
“You are correct, sir,” Jacques said to Bertram. “Van Gogh happened upon the reed pen while he was in this region. He used a penknife to sharpen local hollow-barreled grass and obviously was very pleased with the results it gave him.”
He addressed the painting to which Bertram referred. The two men engaged in a lively exchange. Finally, Bertram seemed satisfied and thanked Jacques for his expertise.
“I am always happy to discuss van Gogh’s work. The paintings and drawings he made in the Camargue have their own distinct character and beauty. Between 1877 and 1890, he crafted over eleven hundred drawings. Many people are not aware of that, yet it’s his drawings that have affected me the most—and have influenced my own choice of medium.”
Next he played a slide show of van Gogh’s drawings, many of them re-creations of paintings that the artist would send to family and friends to report what he was doing. Everyone, except Bertram, was surprised to learn that van Gogh sometimes made his drawings after he had created the oil painting.
“In his letters to his brother Theo, he said drawing helped him combat his depression. He knew, as we do, that working en plein air, we are able to capture light and images more quickly and from that create our interpretation.”
De Villeneuve then shared a series of drawings and paintings by local artists. There were some magnificent birds. The flamingos, in particular, were depicted in ways that drew breathless comments about the graceful slender curves of their heads and necks, the textured beauty of their feathers, and the seeming fragility of their thin legs.
“The only time I think of pink flamingos is when I see them as tacky lawn ornaments,” John said.
“Or as the good luck symbol for the Florida lottery ticket I buy every week,” Joan added with a chuckle.
“It’s rather the icon of American kitsch, isn’t it?” Bertram asked rhetorically. “Who knows what a group of flamingos is called?”
Jacques had been listening to the banter with amusement. Now he watched to see if anyone could answer Bertram’s question.
After suggestions of “a flock,” “a gathering,” “a bunch,” and a few others were put forward, Bertram announced, “I believe the appropriate collective noun is a flamboyance.”
Jacques clapped his hands. “Bravo!” He then turned their attention to the rest of the art he had on display. “The pink flamingo is the official emblem of the Camargue. However, the Camarguais horses and bulls are equally iconic.”
His words flowed as he painted dramatic visuals of the wild horses of the Camargue, describing how the gardians worked with them as well as the bulls raised there. Robust white horses and sturdy black bulls, with majestically curved long horns, were captured in oils, watercolors, pastels, and graphite.
The movement and beauty of the images captured a combination of fragility and strength. The subject matter was completely different from the art of Provence they were all accustomed to.
“This is food for thought from a very different menu!” Marti exclaimed. “It never occurred to me that I would be creating works like this in the South of France. I’m definitely intrigued.”
Juliette and Maurice set the art on long tables that had been arranged under a shady pergola.
De Villeneuve’s enthusiasm for all the pieces and his pride in the local artists was obvious.
“I often consider Thoreau’s thought that the world is a canvas to our imagination. And that has been true throughout my life. Would you say the same? I hope to hear how art is integrated in your lives.”
He indicated that he was leaving a handout with the websites of all the artists whose work he was sharing. “I encourage you to take some time to explore the work and the philosophies of these artists. It will open a window into how this area inspires creative talent from all over the world. How it speaks to them in such diverse ways.”
He walked over to where his work was displayed and picked up different examples as he spoke.
“I’ve worked with graphite pencil or charcoal almost exclusively since I began my artistic endeavors in the Camargue. It feels right. When I reduce my subject matter to black and white, it feels as though only the basic shading is left. To me, this represents truth.”
The group agreed the use of black and white produced a powerful, intense piece of art.
Arianna had been sitting very still. His art had stirred thoughts deep within her.
I feel like I have been living my life in black and white since Ben’s illness. I need to begin to add shading to this picture of my life. I’ve been numb for so long, I’ve closed my eyes and my heart to the beauty around me. Faith was right. I need to blossom. I need to free my imagination.
There was general astonishment that the morning had passed so quickly.
A simple but sumptuous buffet was set up for lunch, and during this time, everyone had an opportunity to speak with their guest. Questions were asked and answered. They walked around the display tables, expressing opinions, studying perspectives, and comparing techniques. Discussion ensued as to the different moods portrayed by the works of art they were viewing.
Maximus wandered up and down the tables, rubbing gently against the framed art. He purred his satisfaction at the absentminded head scratches and ear rubs he received. After a while, he wandered over to a stone wall from where he could observe all the activity.
The lunch buffet and art show lasted for two hours, accompanied by probing discussion about techniques, subject matter, and lighting. Arianna caught a glimpse of Juliette and Maurice sharing smiles of satisfaction as they observed the interactions.
There was one final aspect of Jacques’s life in the Camargue that still was to be shared.
“Apart from art, which truly drives my life, I have one other passion about this area I call home.” His eyes flashed, and his voice took on an intensity different from before.
“My grandfather had a dream that grew out of family stories passed along from a portrait of an ancestor on a white horse. He grew up in Arles, and when he heard stories about a man founding the gardians, he ran away to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. I follow in his footsteps, and those of my father, as a gardian today.”
He showed a brief video that dramatically portrayed life on a manade, a traditional ranch where black Camargue bulls were raised. The footage of men, the gardians, on the backs of wild white horses, riding through the surf and herding the bulls, evoked romantic images of a way of life that was quickly disappearing, he explained. “Let me assure you the life involves long hours and hard labor . . . not so romantic! But we all have a love for what we do.
“I will keep you sitting here for hours if I continue to talk about it. So I’m issuing an invitation instead. It would be my pleasure to have you come down to the Camargue and spend a day. We can meet at my cabane—my cabin on the manade where I work. If you like, I can arrange for a short trek on a Camargue horse.”
M
urmurs of interest punctuated the end of his invitation.
De Villeneuve spoke with everyone individually for the next part of the afternoon. The focus was on basic drawing skills that might be the foundation for their paintings, in whatever medium. As helpful as the group sessions were, everyone later agreed how they valued this personal attention.
Arianna felt nervous and embarrassed when it was her turn. She had managed to position herself so she was the last one. She was thankful she had at least drawn something on paper in the morning. His comments and suggestions were constructive, with tips that she could see would be useful.
His steady voice and assured manner calmed her nerves. She was surprised to find herself responding as he drew out some of the technical questions she had felt shy about voicing to that point.
As he gathered the group together to end his visit, he addressed the value of warming up before you begin drawing.
“If you are feeling stressed about something or burdened by other thoughts when you begin to work,” he said, “art will be a challenge. It will not flow. The first thing you need to remember is to set aside all other thoughts. Breathe. Become present. Then you may begin your conversation with the paper.” He demonstrated a few short exercises that he said helped him to “loosen his hand and his thoughts.”
“Jacques,” said Juliette, her rhapsodic tone the perfect complement to his throaty delivery, “thank you for taking the time to share your art, as well as the magic of the spellbinding Camargue with us. I don’t know anyone who could have done this more passionately or informatively.”
She was interrupted by applause from the group and a loud “Hear, hear!” from Bertram. He led the rest in a standing ovation.
Juliette smiled and nodded her agreement. “Equally as important, I believe you were able to open our eyes as observers to the endless ways of interpreting the Camargue artistically. I believe I speak for all of us when I say it was fascinating and inspiring to see the work of the various artists that you brought with you.”
Drawing Lessons Page 10
